To build a Beacon
by ramblingonandon
Summary: There are those who are afraid of the dark and cower before it, there are those who strike up light against it and some even allow others into its glow. But then there are those who seek to build a beacon; a symbol, a signal, a warning, a guide – a light that would remain long after they are gone. [for the Fete des Mousquetaires competition - January prompt]


**A/N: this one is for the Fete des Mousquetaires competition January prompt, please check the forum for details. Thank you KarriNeves for managing the competition.**

 **This is not my usual style of writing, nor the character I usually write for. Still this sort of happened and here we are :)**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable here, nor making any money.**

 **Happy reading!**

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He is young and eager with a heart that beats honour. Quick on his feet and sharp in his moves, he is the winter air of his beloved city, light and cutting like a feather made of blades. That is where it all starts Treville believes, those are the days where his love for this place would take root without him even realizing it. Walking through the narrow streets and dodging the splashes of filthy water someone sweeps out their door – in those moments something pricks in the depth of his heart and he smiles as a gust picks up the loose hay from before a rather bewildered looking horse; he grins as the pale wisps are blown away.

Treville is grasping at straws.

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"You need to grow up my friend," DeFoix says.

"Or grow a brain," Belgard snorts.

He adds few more sticks to the fire and sits back against his saddle, crosses his ankles one over the other and stares up at the clear night sky. There is no moon tonight but the stars, hundreds and thousands of them blink back at him, specks no bigger than the tip of a needle each and together they set the entire sky in brilliance.

"I think it's a waste to simply keep pushing soldiers in a regiment that doesn't want them," he says, "there is no place to put them in, not enough food stores, the ranks are brimming and starting to spill over."

"And what'll you have us do then? Throw them out on the streets with no skill to earn a living?" DeFoix asks.

"Like I said, there should be a place they can go to, a place they can belong within the city,"

"They are better off this way," Belgard shrugs, "with less people breathing down their necks and the city at their pickings,"

"It's not the way of a soldier," he says.

Sitting forward he watches their small campfire happily cackling in the night air and promises himself, promises himself something that he can't put into words yet. But he still makes a vow as the flames dance and the fire spits, embers flying in the dark.

Treville feeds the fire.

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There are screams and shrieks and wails in the air.

Red stains the crown, pools in a halo under the man he has sworn to protect.

Horse hooves clatter onto the cobblestone and colours flash in his sight as he turns away, pushes past the throng of fleeing people; their hats askew and laces ripping off dresses as jewels spill in thei haste to escape. Treville makes his way through it all, squinting against the too bright afternoon sun and finds what he has been looking for.

"The king is dead, long live the king!"

He falls to his knees before the boy.

The shocked tear stained face simply stares back at him.

"The king is dead, long live the king!"

Louis steps closer, wipes his nose on his sleeve.

The Queen is not in sight. But that is not important for Treville, not now.

"The king is dead, long live the king,"

Louis hastens the remaining steps and throws his arms around Treville's neck.

All the lessons in propriety and composure break for that moment. And Treville sees a boy, only just orphaned with the weight of a kingdom falling on his too young shoulders. He wraps his arms around the shuddering frame and does not let go.

Stands with the boy tucked firmly under his arm and his pistol at the ready in his other hand; shoots down the man taking aim at them and stepping before the boy meets the oncoming blade with his own.

"The king is dead, long live the king!"

Treville defends the light of his country.

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"I'll talk to him," he draws a hand through his hair and clutches at them, "he can't do this. It's madness,"

"The blame for His Majesty's assassination has shaken him too his core," DeFoix says as he leans back in the doorway, "he is afraid his father might cut him off from the family fortune,"

"But murder?" he stares, "murder of his own wife and son?"

DeFoix pushes away from where he has been leaning and steps closer to him, lays a hand on his shoulder and stops the pacing he is about to take up again. The man looks him in the eyes and gives him a slight shake.

"We are his friends, brothers; we must stand by him," DeFoix says.

"No brother of mine would stoop so low," he says.

Shrugs off the hand and walks past DeFoix.

Treville burns his bridges.

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He can still feel the small warm body pressed close to him, the small arms around his neck and the tear stained eyes of Belgard's boy. He can still see the horror on the woman's face when he had told her what her husband had planned, can still taste the disgust on his tongue when he had explained the reasons of the man he had once considered his brother.

He closes his eyes and there they are again, the small child huddled in his mother's arms as she hurries down the street, he blinks to wash away the image with the tears burning in his eyes.

"It was the only way," DeFoix says, "it was the best we could do for them,"

"Abandon them? Leave them in the streets? That is supposed to be good for them?"

"At least they're alive,"

"They should be better than that," his anger seeps bitterness in his words, "she was – is a soldier's wife, she shouldn't be left to fend for herself on the streets with nothing to help her and a son to care for,"

"You know Belgard wouldn't accept her in front of his father,"

"He should have! They were in love."

"That's is not how our world works,"

He paces along the length of the room.

"We should do something," he says.

"We are soldiers ourselves; we can't support a family that's not ours. What do you expect us to do when we have a wife and a son of our own to support?"

Shaking his head he walks out, through the Palace grounds and out the gates. The night wanes as he makes his way down the streets of Paris and to the Court of Miracles. The sun isn't yet out as he asks around for a young woman and her boy.

They are new here he tells them; they just came here last night; it was a mistake; please I need to find them.

And as the glares and threatens heighten into blades being drawn he steps back. Walks out of the Court of Miracles with new bruises, a split lip and a swollen ankle; he walks away with an ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the injuries. As the sun rises he resolves to find a way to help the wives of the king's soldiers, wives and families who had been abandoned by their husbands for whatever reasons, death or otherwise; a way to help those who had made the mistake of falling in love and marrying the disgusting cowards like Belgard. Paris wakes up slowly.

Treville faces the sun.

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The drunken ramblings have tapered off; his friend is nearly a limp weight at his side.

He pulls the arm around his neck a bit tighter and shifts his grip on the wrist; Serge's head lolls where it hangs between his shoulders, his wine laced breath misting in the air. The limp is more pronounced now, an abrupt jolt in their movements as his friend tries to keep pace with him.

Unlocking the door singlehandedly he kicks in open and half drags half steers Serge across the small room and onto the narrow bed.

"I don't – don't need your pity," the man looks up at him with glassy eyes, "an' I sure as hell don't need your charity,"

The soldier in him understands, the man that he is feels helpless. He moves to collect the wood he keeps for the hearth and throws in the logs before crouching down to set them properly.

"But I'm your friend and you need my help," he says.

"What I need is for my damn leg to take my weight,"

"What you need is the crown helping you get back on your feet when you are wounded in service to it,"

Serge glares at him, mouth twisting in a bitter smile.

"Get back on my feet eh?"

He draws a hand down his face, grimacing at his choice of words before the anger returns, the feeling of bitter rage when he had seen the man he had served with, the man who was in this state because he had fought for the crown and he had found him half frozen and completely drunk at the side of a street.

"Yes, get back on your feet," he says, throws in a handful of straws so that he can start a fire, "there should be a way to get soldiers like you back on their feets,"

Treville strikes the flint.

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The water laps slowly against the ships, the lanterns sway in tandem.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks.

"It is for the good of France," DeFoix smirks.

"And for you as well,"

"I am but a loyal soldier,"

Lifting the lantern he is carrying he looks up at the ship that would be leaving for Spain soon. It would carry his friend, the newly appointed General, away from the city where unrest is stirring. He can feel it in the glances at the court, in the corners of the rooms at the Palace and in the shifting gazes of some of the soldiers. Something big is afoot, he can tell, so can DeFoix.

"You're abandoning your post,"

"I'm going to where I'm sent," DeFoix says.

Steps forward and wraps him in a one armed hug, thumps him on the shoulder when he moves back and grins at him.

"You should look for a chance of such orders too old friend,"

"I'm fine where I am," he says.

Watches his friend shake his head and board the ship. Stays where he is as the ropes are thrown and the orders flung in the air. Stands at the edge and watches the ship sail out of the harbor and out of his sight. There is enough glow from the lanterns aboard the other ships docked there, there is enough borrowed light to help him see his way, enough brightness offered for the time the ships are still there. He knows they are only lent to this place for as long as the ships are tied up there, knows that the promise of departure is ever present.

Treville holds up the lantern he carries.

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The smell of dust clings to the back of the throat. For a place so important for the throne it's clear that no one visits here often. The flame at the end of the torch he is carrying flaps against the dry air.

"Why are these tunnels not manned?" he asks.

"Because no one knows about them and the entrances are locked," Richelieu says, "only I have the keys for those,"

"But you know those doors won't defend against a thief seeking to steal the jewels of the crown, isn't that why we're here now?"

"We are here because the Queen's supporters know of this place," the man's cloak swishes over the dusty floor as he moves past him and ahead, "the soldiers in are ranks are from the nobility and after this last attempt against the throne we cannot trust them,"

Their footsteps echo in the underground hallways as he moves with the ill grace of one supporting broken ribs. The bloody, bitter, loud days behind him drag after him like a torn banner stuck to his boots. Suspicion is a sour presence around him and he wonders if he will ever be able to trust a fellow soldier again. The memory of the one who stood beside him to defend their young king turning around to cut his throat flashes before his eyes.

"Captain?"

He blinks.

Nods and resumes his walk after the First Minister, the Cardinal he had never seen eye to eye with, and he wonders when did this man become the only one he can depend on.

"The nobility is not to be trusted. Power hungry, greed filled animals the lot of them," Richelieu is talking more to himself than anything else.

"Then why not give a chance to those not born in it?" he asks.

The man ahead of him turns to regard him with a raised brow.

But he refuses to look away, this has been on his mind for too long, this has been brushed aside too many times when he had brought it up in the past. But after the last days he knows that the Cardinal would see the wisdom in his words.

"Why do we only have to have the sons of nobles in our army?" he pulls himself straighter, ignores the twinge in his side, "we can have a regiment solely to protect the king, and have it not be filled only with the nobility."

Richelieu shakes his head and taking out the keys from his belt moves to unlock the iron door. The room is shrouded in darkness, it breathes around them as they step in and the flame he carries breathes with it. The First Minister stands still, rigid. But he steps closer to the wall and moves along with it, his free hand tracing the cold stone until he feels it; the metal bracket and the wood it holds.

Treville touches the flame of his torch to the one in the room.

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He stares at the letter.

The words, the signature and the seal of approval it boasts.

Running a hand through his hair that is turning a touch grey at the temples he simply stares. Holds the piece of paper as if it is gold, precious, and it is. Not gold but precious, too precious to him. And even as he reads it again and again he cannot believe that he has been allowed to have his own regiment, cannot believe that the royal coffers will allow commission in it even to those not of noble families, that he has the freedom to allocate the portion of resources at his disposal and he knows he will not have to leave another wronged family helpless as he had long ago at the gates of the Court of Miracles, that he would find a way to help the soldiers forced out of their old lives because of irreparable wounds from battles.

He can finally pick out soldiers he can trust to watch his back.

And he can offer them a home in his beloved city; can instill in them what he holds dear.

He reads the name of the regiment given to him.

"The King's Musketeers,"

He smiles.

Looks up at the building that would be his garrison.

It will need work, a lot of it, but it has a strong foundation he is sure; will be a strong foundation for what he is to build, what he had built so far.

"Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno," he reads the words over the gates.

Here Treville builds a symbol of hope, a warning to those who threaten them, a signal to stand together and a guiding light to bring his men home.

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 _ **Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships. – _ **Charles Simic**_**_

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 **END**


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